Optimism
by Kate Christie
Summary: Nipping at the tip of his presumptuous tongue, she finally gets his attention and manages to drag herself away from his lips. "Castle!" "What? You and your hot little hand started this!" Elevator Fic, also known as my silly, sexy little post-ep for "After the Storm." Thank you, @dtrekker for my wonderful graphic!


**Optimism**

As the metal doors slide closed, his hand clasps vice-like over her offending wrist, and she's spun around, grabbed, pulled into his chest. The next seconds are a blur of fingers, lips and tongue, and she finds herself hoisted up, legs wrapped snugly around his waist, hands in his hair.

He's kissing her, delving deep into the recesses of her mouth, fingers gripping her ass.

The small of her back makes contact with the unforgiving metal wall, and she grunts into his mouth in protest.

Nipping at the tip of his presumptuous tongue, she finally gets his attention and manages to drag herself away from his lips.

"Castle!"

"What? You and your hot little hand started this!"

His eyes are positively black, and she's sure she can feel some "evidence" of his state of mind between them.

"We're in an elevator at the precinct!"

She isn't sure why, but she's sort of whisper-yelling at him, despite the fact that there's no one else in earshot.

"There could be cameras!"

She glances to the corners, scrutinizes the plexi-glass for signs of a little red light behind it.

He scoots her to the side and leans down to examine the panel she was plastered against.

"I hate to break it to you, Detective, but you do not _actually_ work here at this moment. And besides, the turnkey says the camera is in the 'off' position."

Damn. There goes her best defense.

That's when he starts in on her neck. He knows very well what it does to her when he attaches himself to that spot—oh god he found the spot again. How does he _know_ all of this after only forty eight hours?

She grips his waist with her thighs, setting him off balance, and she gets smacked hard against the panel behind her for her trouble.

Halfway through a very vocal "Ow!" she pauses, because the world has stopped moving and bells are ringing.

Not a commentary on his talented tongue—just facts.

The elevator has stopped dead, and the alarm bell is sounding.

He hauls her away from the wall, and at least the bell ceases.

But they still haven't moved.

Apparently her ass has managed to activate the exact magical sequence of button pushes to completely disable the eighty-year-old piece of machinery.

"Shit."

They both say it at once, and sort of into each other's mouths.

Dilated pupils meet, contracting simultaneously in panic.

But then a voice speaks to them both, from on high. Or maybe from the speaker above her head. Same difference.

"Everybody okay in there?"

Bronx. Must be Lou. He's usually the afternoon security shift on weekdays.

"Yeah. We're—" what the hell is he doing with his hands? "—fine! What's going on?"

"Dono yet fuh sure. Called Melvin. He's on his way."

Oh god—Melvin, the elevator mechanic who is actually older than this elevator. Doomed. They are doomed.

"Thanks, Lou. We're fine."

She rolls her eyes at his double eyebrow raise. He's got a sparkle in his eye, and she hopes Lou switches off the damn emergency phone before Castle implodes from whatever this good idea he thinks he has is.

"Ten-four, Detective Beckett. We'll get you outta there in a jiff."

As soon as the static ceases, he's pressing her to a different wall, sort of in the corner, and glowing at her in anticipation.

"So… Detective Beckett… the way I see it, we can look at this situation one of two ways. So are you an optimist or a pessimist this fine afternoon?"

She hates to admit it, but despite some of the darkest moments of her life having transpired in the past forty eight hours, she's on a decidedly optimistic high from taking charge of her life, making a decision to let go of old injustice, old hurt, in favor of protecting this new happiness.

"I'm a realist, Castle. And even though Melvin takes ten minutes to walk up from the basement, in reality we only have about fifteen before he gets this box moving again."

His sudden suppressed jump of laughter forces her to reconsider her words. Box. Well, you know what, if he's going to be that juvenile, he does not deserve to make out in the elevator with her for the next quarter of an hour.

She unhooks her ankles from where they have settled (quite naturally, she thinks, despite the fact they've only been there once or, no, definitely twice before) at the small of his back, releases her grip, wonders why gravity isn't quite in play…

Oh, yes, he's unashamedly grabbing her ass with both wide palms, the strength of his back and arms more than sufficient to overcome that minor tenet of _physics_ in favor of _biology_. She likes his biology. Really, a lot. Especially when he's found that damn spot again, and now his _tongue_ has gotten involved and her brain turns _off_ when his tongue is involved.

She realizes that she would have hot, hard, fast, completely sober sex with him in this elevator right now if he really pushes, and damn… that tongue is pushing something.

Re-entwining the ankles for balance, she slides one hand into the short hair at the nape of his neck, pulls his head up to engage that talented tongue in activity she can superintend. The other hand, well, he seems to enjoy where that one has gone.

The squeak he lets out is decidedly lusty.

And for some reason, she's flicking open the button on his pants and reaching inside, and then there are only silk boxers between her seeking fingers and his extremely aroused anatomy, and she's entirely forgotten why she thought it would be a bad idea to take advantage of their special "situation" alone in the elevator.

As if on cue, he pulls out of the kiss and vocalizes, voice low, gruff, and oh-so-seductive.

"Do you have any idea how many of my fantasies revolve around you and me, semi-naked in this elevator?"

Apparently about as many as she has.

Stroking against length lightly with deft fingers, she coaxes out a groan.

"Beckett…" He takes a breath, blows it out against her cheek, gathers himself. "As I was saying, before your little wet blanket of reality interrupted, we can look at this one of two ways. Either we take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fulfill an extremely hot, extremely persistent mutual fantasy, or we ignore this little window of good fortune granted by fate, or time, or whatever, and spend the rest of our lives asking," he zeroes in, hot breath directly in her ear, "'What if we _had_ ripped each other's clothes off and christened the precinct elevator?'"

The laugh rings out unfettered from her chest, and she releases her fingers, sliding her hand back up to brace against his chest. Taking her response as an affirmative, he pins her to the paneling with his hips, lets go of his hold, and starts in on buttons.

The pressure where their bodies meet is delicious, just this side of salacious, and god she wants more. Right now. She tugs his shirttail out from his waist, just trying to find some skin to skim with her fingers, keep them occupied while she attempts to reason her way out of this glorious mess she is letting herself get dragged into.

And then he grinds against her, rolls his hips so that his length plays along all the best nerve endings, and she moans his name. At least she thinks it's his name. She isn't sure she's made quite that noise before. Ever.

Just because they have never managed to do… this… in under an hour does NOT mean they can't speed things up a bit under special circumstances…

And oh, holy—how has he gotten his hand under her bra with only one of her buttons undone? She arches into the warmth of his palm, feels her nipple tighten painfully, sucks in a breath, circles her hips against him in slow, torturous imitation of what he's doing with his hand.

That's it. They're doing this. They are doing this right now, because if she doesn't have him inside her in the next two minutes, she might actually implode with the wanting.

"Clothes, off, now."

She's trying to wedge a hand between them to unzip his pants when he releases her breast in favor of trouser removal. But instead of sliding down her zipper, he misses, strokes her through the fabric in a harsh swipe that leaves her breathless. Impatience takes over, and oh, maybe they should just leave the damn clothes _on_.

Cueing into her breathing, he repeats the firm slide against her, and she is sure he can feel just how aroused she is even through the layers. His eyes are on hers, watching as they glaze over at his touch, watching her head fall back. He's still circling his hips against hers, and now he's circling with his fingers as well, and she's going to… oh god… the tingle is starting low in her belly and her legs are shaking, threatening to lose their tenuous hold on his hips.

Her hand, distracted from its earlier mission, has fisted in his shirt, gripping for dear life.

Lips smash together, tongues battle, and she's spiraling higher by the second. As the first edge of her climax approaches, she rocks hard against him and braces for the onslaught.

And then a loud "thunk" echoes all around them and the elevator starts sinking.

Their kiss breaks and she sees his eyes, snapping blue and bright with fresh panic, thinks she hears herself whimper before she can gather the brain cells to whisper-yell:

"Clothes, on, now!"

Her legs release as his hips snap back, and she almost loses her balance from the sudden lack of him. He's shot across the small square, frantically stuffing his shirt back in his pants. She only has one button undone, but she's half out of her bra, and geez that is an awkward thing to fix in front of your brand new lover in an enclosed space. But then, it can't be too much more embarrassing that what has almost transpired. God why did it not _transpire_? She needs some serious transpiration, and she needs it right now.

He crosses back, eyebrows at full alert, reaches for her face, and she almost ducks, thinking he's decided to blow their cover after all. But then he wipes the corner of her mouth with his thumb, unsmears what his lips have done to her makeup. She catches his chin in her hand, rubs at a spot of pink at the angle of his jaw, but the elevator dings at their destination before she can erase the evidence completely.

Castle is standing ramrod straight, having put a little too much distance between them, when the doors open on the white-haired, spectacled Melvin, holding a wrench nearly as long as his forearm and smiling up at them from his round-shouldered stance.

"You kids alright? You look a little peaked, the both of you. Not scared of tight spaces, are ya'? I've seen some people get pretty wound up right quick in that box."

"No, no, we're fine. Just a little anxious… to head home. Separately. To our own respective homes. Now."

She chances a look toward her partner to give him her best death glare, swears if he says one more word she will grab his ear to get him out of there. Stepping out and around their elfin mechanic, she surreptitiously assesses the damage.

Thankfully, their little incident hasn't drawn a crowd. Just Lou, watching from the desk with a mildly interested expression, probably pleased to have something to break up the monotony of the three PM slump.

She turns back to Melvin, tries her best through her adrenaline-induced buzz to give him a genuine smile.

"Thank you for getting us out so quickly."

"I'm not sure what we would have done if we'd been stuck in there much longer."

Oh, she's sure. She's one hundred and ten percent sure. And damn if she doesn't really just want to find another unoccupied elevator on their way home and finish the job. Jobs. Ugh.

Melvin steps up to Castle, reaches with his thumb to the spot she'd been trying to clean in the elevator. His eyes twinkle as he drops his voice to a whisper.

"Sonny, you might want to get this off before you walk by old Lou." He tips his head in the direction of the desk where the large security guard is occupied with a visitor. "Biggest gossip at the Twelfth, you know. Wouldn't do to have people talking quite yet, now would it?"

He turns his wizened gray eyes on Kate, pauses a moment to study her, gives her a saucy wink, and totters off to collect his tools.

Kate catches Castle's wide-eyed stare, scrunches her face up to break it, crosses her arms resolutely over her chest, and strides off toward the door.

He catches up at the bottom of the steps, reaches out to hail a passing cab, looks conspiratorially at her as he holds open the door. Just as she's about to call out her address to the driver, he chimes in.

"The Empire State Building, please."

"What the hell?"

She wants him naked and pinning her to a wall, not standing in line with tourists to ride up the longest…

Oh…

It hits her, and she grins, evil and toothy, quirks an eyebrow seeking confirmation.

"See, I know a guy…"

**# * # * # * #**

**So yeah, I caved and wrote a post-ep for "After the Storm." It should really be called "Elevator Fic," since that's all it really is… By the way, I can be bribed (potentially) for sequels with convincing arguments in favor. **

**And once again, Joy, you tell me when a word technically does NOT exist in the English language, and then you tell me I can use it anyway. You are a saint. A saint with a large machete.**

**Kate ;) **

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie at tumblr dot com**


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